Slip Away
by starsarefading
Summary: Well, I guess this is it, then. [DerekAddison] Series of ficlets on ending.


_A/N_: It was supposed to be a "deaths blahblah never died" type of thing, which I'm really into right now, but it's not… exactly that. It's just writer's block, like, a lot.

Still, 4 drabbles (all with slightly more than 100 words, though) + 1 ficlet, which have not been beta-ed, by the way, so don't say I didn't warn you. (I really do need someone to look over my GA fics. /hint)

They are all Derek/Addison, and if you like D/M only, then I suppose you should go read something else.

_Disclaimer_: I don't even own the chair my butt is currently settled in.

* * *

_Slip Away._

**I. it's a good life, charlie brown.**

In your seventy-sixth birthday, people open their arms; jokingly say they hope you have seventy-six more years ahead (it's good to see you, man). Ellie, with her blue-eyed wonder, gives her first steps one day later, and she really is the apple of grandfather's eyes.

Most of the time, when all your muscles work, life is filled with ferry rides, stories of long-gone friends, and taking your kid's kids to the park. It's been two years since Addi passed, but her side of the bed is still very much there, and not even Burke is around to challenge you anymore.

So on the morning forms for a new health plan come, you sign "DNR," because although you're in no rush to die, living isn't what it used to be, either.

**II. o again and again in wonder.**

Two bodies intertwined on an ivory summer day, the kind of moment life lends once in a while so that all the grief and laceration will appear to pale in comparison. But something is about to happen.

Downstairs, a door closes soundly, heavy footsteps echo on the wooden stairs. The next minute: filled with hasty clothes-searching and insignificant hair-fixing.

"Oh my God, Derek."

What is there to say, then? (I'm sorry, I'm sorry, until its very meaning is lost?)

"How could you? I would never do anything like this to you," Addison yells. Already the world is heavier, and she's not even gone yet.

**III. all the things i wish i'd wrote.**

Every working night, Derek and Addison break into the room on ICU that has been closed since the adjoining bathroom flooded with water last spring, and they've been married for almost two years. Dinner is hardly ever more than cafeteria food, but a chance to rest her feet on his lap is never unappreciated.

Internship is definitely taking its toll; sometimes he comes home and falls asleep without taking off his shoes. On those days, she kisses his neck, helps with paperwork, promises she'll be the one to call to their parents that week.

In one shift, a drug addict comes to beg for morphine, so when Derek doesn't give it, the man shoots him. The pain consumes like poison and soon, none of his thoughts make sense. She cries alone, doesn't quite believe how cliché it is. He only regrets that he'll never get to know all the funny places she breaks.

**VI. the revolution's here.**

The waiters around the restaurant have concluded that he's been stood up, but he knows how Mark is just consistently late for things.

A girl walks in. In with her comes a scent of eucalyptus, which rescues water-colored memories of the dire colds he used to fake, trying to avoid school on rainy days. She searches the crowd, moves towards his table and says "hey". Quite honestly, these things never happen to him.

Her auburn hair shimmers under the light, so he barely notices when Mark clings a deceitful arm to her shoulders. "Derek, meet my girlfriend, Addison."

(And she is every dream he never had.)

**V. of queens and ice castles.**

"There was nothing left to do," you insist, but Addison will have none of it. "No, you gave up."

Your fist hits the stair's railing with unexpected violence, "No, _you_ have to learn to let go."

"No, she had a chance. _You_ gave up."

Anything else would have made her life hell, you reason to yourself, and start to walk away with a clear conscience. You're halfway through the door when she adds: "As you always do," and that is _it_.

You grab her arm impulsively, taking gratification in the flicker of fear in her eyes. She decides first, though it's your tingling lips that move hers gently. It's your tongue that finds its way inside her open mouth, yet you pointedly ignore how this kind of thing has been happening more and more since the divorce.

Her hand touches your face, nails sinking ever so slightly, and that's all it takes to lose control. You push her against the wall, your knee surreptitiously parts her legs, and any tenderness is gone. She fits you with the perfection of a two decade long education, trailing kisses along your cheeks, arms shamelessly holding your shoulders close, closer, closer. Your breathing is thick and scarce; if anything, you miss the way she can give you these little heart attacks. You bite her jaw right before she pulls away.

She smiles coldly, undefeated.

"And you still have the nerve to tell me _I_ should learn to let go."


End file.
